The Last Musketeer

By Roland L Chamberlain

About the Book
The Last Musketeer explores the questions: What was the true ending of the Musketeers? Did they all perish with the king and queen? This story takes the last two Musketeers through their perilous escape from Europe and into America. In this story, the last Musketeer has not only thrived in America but also has a place in American history. It is a new perspective on what happened to King Louie, Queen Marie-Antoinette, and the Musketeers who bravely tried to defend them. This story explores the life of the last Musketeer: how he lived, prospered, and loved. It is a unique and one of kind possibility as to the end of the last of the brave men who stood for God, king, and country. “All for one and one for all.”

About the Author
Roland L. Chamberlain was born in Westbrook, Maine. He currently resides in El Mirage, Arizona. He has a passion for history and believes the adage that, “If you forget history, you are doomed to repeat its mistakes.” Chamberlain enjoys drawing landscapes and people and reading science fiction. His wife assists him in both her research and her support of him. His two sons are his sample audience who provide him with excellent feedback.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888125632

Book preview

Chapter One:

Future’s Past

The family stone by the driveway entrance was barely visible through all the weeds that had grown around it, their height testifying to the many months of human absence.

Eric LaRouchelle bent down on one knee and pulled the growth aside to better see his namesake. He shook his head slowly, memories of playing here as a child coming back.  

His daughter Sharon jumped from the passenger seat of the crew cab four by four and came up beside her father with all the energy of a fourteen year old. The distance from the truck to family stone took but a second.

Stopping abruptly she noted her dad’s expression and carefully knelt beside him. As he held the weeds aside she reached over and started to pick out some of the encrusted dirt from the deeply carved letters.

Grandpa wouldn’t like to see it like this, she said quietly.

No...He wouldn’t, he responded as quiet but not taking his eye from the stone.

After a minute or so watching her remove the unwelcome soil from its present location he stood slowly looking in the direction of the long driveway, his heart sank.

The LaRouchelle house was once a rather stately Louisiana manor just ten miles west of Lake Pontchartrain and the same distance north of the main road to Baton Rouge. A large eight room home, still it was somewhat modest, surrounded by six acres. These acres, like the house were in disarray. Though in her day, it must have looked magnificent.

He could only imagine it.

The years had been hard enough on the old place but the battering of Hurricane Angela succeeded in taking away her remaining beauty. Some roofing had been torn away exposing her attic to the elements. Broken windows shown on the second floor where some of the plywood sheets had ripped free. The sheets that remained were discolored with rusty trails running downward from all nail heads. Even from the distance the once noble home seemed to be weeping rusty tears. Not even Hurricane Katrina many years before had been this hard on her.

Sharon stood up beside him and put and arm around him.

I’ll be okay Dad, she said with a reassuring squeeze. I think Grandpa will just be glad we came back to check the place out.

If only: I hadn’t been on that damned business trip when Angela hit. I...I could have been here...I could’ve helped him secure everything and board up the place. He shouldn’t have done all that alone...at his age.

Eric LaRouchelle blinked away the tears.

Hey! We visited Grandpa just a few months before Angela and he looked great. There’s no way you could’ve know anything, Sharon scolded him politely.

He glanced at her with a half-smile. Thanks, I guess I’m still beating myself up over it.

Ay ya! his daughter came back playfully.

With a slight frown he wrapped an arm around her and gave a strong quick hug. He then looked back at the house. At least the heart attack took him quick. I think it would have broken his heart to see the place looking like this. I just wish we could’ve gotten back here sooner than almost six months later.

"Well...are we gonna keep reminiscing from the driveway or are we going into the house?" Sharon teased him.

Oooo...I oughta.. he said shaking a fist before her in mock anger.

Please Dad, she said lowering his fist with both hands. Besides at this range you’d miss.

She quickly bolted from his side and ran around the truck, jumping back in. She was still giggling as he climbed back in himself.

No respect from my offspring, her father stated as he fired the truck up, the large V-8 engine roaring to life and the Dodge began to move.

Lame comeback Dad, really lame.

Think so? he quipped, now negotiating the fallen branches and debris in the driveway. Wait ‘til you bring home that first date and I bring out the old home movies.

Oh Dad...you wouldn’t? she replied, giggling dying fast and color draining from her face.

He looked over at her with a truly wicked expression. It’s called parental revenge.

Punctuating his comment with an evil snicker had her looking ill.

The tall pick-up came to a stop under the carriage entrance. True to her age of design the front doorway had the customary pillared roof so that in adverse weather one could go from mode of transportation to right into the house without getting wet. The Louisiana weather semi-frequently put it to good use.

Stepping from the truck Eric looked up at the overhead wrought iron light fixture that dangled on a short length of chain. Originally an oil lamp, it long ago was converted to electricity. Now it hung there covered in rust.

Sharon went to the door and gave the plywood an odd stare. Looks like someone pulled this sheet off and nailed it back on, she then noticed the spray paint on it. What’s this supposed to mean?

Well... her dad started to reply as he came beside her. All I know...is this zero meant they found no bodies inside when they checked after the storm.

Sharon shuddered.

It’s okay, he said as he put a hand on her shoulder. I’m told he died driving himself to the evacuation center just before the storm hit. He didn’t go down without a fight, he paused a moment, a proud smile affixed. Come on; help me get the crowbar out of the toolbox, he said with a gentle pull on her shoulder.

Minutes later they proceeded into the Living Room from the main hallway, flashlights illuminating the way. Some light slipped in past the warped plywood on the outside, creating bright shafts that ran this way and that.

This area hadn’t really flooded as bad as; those further east such as New Orleans twenty seven miles away, but the water damage showed none the less. What direct water contact hadn’t destroyed, moisture and mold did. The walls, all woodwork, and the furniture were ruined. Only the chandeliers looked salvageable.

Sharon aimed her light downward and kicked at the layer of dirt remembering the carpet she knew was under there, somewhere.

Eric leaned on the crowbar like a cane, point into the dirt. Everything’s ruined, he said somberly. They said Angela was worse and did more damage than Katrina, now, I can believe it, he said as he noted the wall’s condition. The house will have to be gutted. It’ll cost a small fortune to repair the place.

Yeah, Sharon echoed his tone.

The first floor was in shambles, so they checked out the upstairs. Furniture was in pretty good condition and might fetch a good price to try and rebuild, but the real heartbreak was found up there. Sometime after the storm someone had broken in and taken everything of any value. Closets and bureau’s had their contents strewn across the floors.

Going over to something on the master bedroom floor Eric lifted out a multiple horizontal picture frame from among the mess. The picture of his grandmother, his wedding pictures with his now deceased wife Arlene, and lastly a more recent photo of Sharon, lay in his hands.

Do we have to lose everything? he said in acid tones, Arlene having died in a car accident just months after his father.

Sharon stood quiet a good moment or two before daring to speak.

Dad? ... Why don’t we check out the basement? Maybe something’s still there? she said softly.

Standing he put the tri-picture frame back in its place on the bureau.

Yeah...maybe, he answered in a whisper.

Back down the staircase the very familiar creek came from the sixth step from the bottom. Sharon stuck right by his side in the creepier ground floor. Down to the end of the hall they turned to face the basement door.

Whoa! . . . Dad?

The door had multiple holes broken through it but none larger than a fist, still the old door refused to give. Warped and swollen it showed many scars and scratches from whoever had tried so hard to get through. Clearly they had no real tools with them.

Eric looked at the nearby wall. A piece of decorative brick boarder from the backyard was where their uninvited guest had thrown it in frustration of not getting into the basement. Well, maybe the old house held back a few things after all, he said optimistically.

I don’t remember the basement. Did it have any windows? she asked.

Nope. It’s rather small, about the size of the main living room, but built pretty stout.

What’s stout? Sharon asked with a funny face.

Built pretty tough, he answered with a chuckle. It’s where you’d take shelter in a normal storm. Otherwise it was used as a wine cellar and just plain storage.

So there might be some stuff down there? she added.

Don’t get your hopes up too high. It was built water tight but a long time ago, and if the house did get flooded I’m sure some of that water found its way down there. Just how much: is the question.

Sharon sagged a bit. Oh, she said softly.

But...the good news is since the door held up I doubt there’s much mud that got past it. Now stand back.

With that he reared back then thrust the end of the crowbar between door and jam as deep as he could. The old hardwood proved better than even the crowbar, only on his fourth stab did he achieve any real depth.

With a groan of protest did the old solid door give at all, but only a little at a time. Eric was sweating heavily before it finally gave way and opened.

Fort Knox couldn’t have had a better door, he said a bit winded while wiping his brow.

Giving the object of his frustration a good shove it opened far enough to allow them by.

Sharon stepped up to hand her dad his light back when she made a distasteful face. Eww. Smells kinda...

Musty, he finished.

Holding her nose she purposely spoke in an overly nasal voice. After you. I’ll just wait by the truck, she then began to creep away slowly.

Reaching out gently with the crowbar, Eric hooked her pants back belt loop with the claw end of the bar. Effortlessly he pulled her toward him in an exaggerated hand over hand down the length of the crowbar until he hooked his index finger in her belt loop.

Oh no you don’t, was all he said in playful tones.

No, really Dad, have fun. I’ll just...

With his free arm he wrapped it around her neck in a light choke hold, cutting off her last sentence. Pulling her backward against himself he locked her there.

If you think I’m going down there alone.., he whispered in her ear. YOU’RE NUTS! he almost shouted.

Ah...umpf...since you insist... Sharon answered making exaggerated gagging sounds and gestures.

Now...come on, her father said authoritatively as he released her. Or do I have to try the stairs with you over my shoulder?

Right behind ya Dad, she replied overly chipper, not wanting to descend into the black hole that way.

Squeezing through the narrow entrance, the uncooperative door, Eric turned his bright LED flashlight-lantern to its highest setting. Aiming it downward he noted a slight shine to the steps.

Careful, he said over his shoulder. The steps are a bit slimy.

Now right behind him Sharon instinctively reached for the hand rail but just a step down or two she jerked her hand away.

Yuck! The hand rail too Dad, she said while wiping her hand to her pant leg.

He couldn’t help but snicker. Just take hold of my belt, but if I go...you go.

Even though he was joking he did carefully give each step a test push downward before applying his full weight to them. There was no way to know how bad the condition of the wood was now.

At last the bottom was reached without incident and they began to scan about their lights. Both looked at the same sight, what had been a stack of cardboard boxes was now a semi collapsed heap against a wall. The cardboard was black and moldy as was the basement rock walls.

It’ll be fun going through that to find anything good, Sharon said as she reached for something she saw sticking out of the remains of the top box.

Her dad intercepted her reach just inches from the pile, a firm hand grasping her forearm.

Not without gloves, he answered her curious expression.

Returning to search mode they came to the opposite wall. Shelves went from floor to ceiling loaded mostly with canned goods whose labels were now obscure beyond readability or had come off completely.

Going on they saw an old refrigerator among the stuff by the third wall.

Whatever you do... Eric said ominously. Don’t open that thing.

The same curious stare came back at him.

You think it smells bad down here now, he warned her.

Oh! she blurted in understanding, looking at the fridge in disgust and yanking back her hand.

Now the fourth and final wall came under scrutiny. Three large wine racks the size of bookcases dominated the center of the wall. Each was four feet wide and went from floor to ceiling. The spaces between the outer two and the rest of the wall to each corner was just more ruined clutter.

The capacity of the three racks combined was better than two hundred and forty bottles but they now held less than sixty spaced about here and there.

Eric walked to the wine rack to the left and carefully extracted a bottle. Handling it gently as he’d seen his father do, he brushed to layer of dust and debris from the glass surface.

Oh... he said in affection. Now this little baby was your grandfather’s pride and joy.

 Sharon eyed it in wonder. What’s special about that bottle? she asked in genuine curiosity.

Cradling it like an infant he leaned the bottle toward her to improve the view.

It’s French, made in 1789. I’m not even sure what it is but an expert in wines could tell you. It’s been in our family...since this house was built.

Wow, she replied softly, the gleam of reflected light from the bottle in her eyes. Now that’s history.

Mm hmm, he said as he just as gently as he had removed it now put it back in the rack. I don’t care how much it’s worth; this is one thing I could never sell.

Too bad the label came off, Sharon commented innocently, which earned a chuckle from her dad.

No . . . no. Back then then didn’t put labels on them.

Oh, she replied meekly.  

Don’t feel bad. What’s funny is I said the same thing to your Grandfather the first time he showed it to me.

Oh! Sharon’s smile returned with a renewed pitch to her voice.

Her father now showed his light toward the center and right side wine racks. Now these two had the much more recent wines in them...

He leaned towards her playfully for effect. And they have labels on them.

She just playfully gave him a punch to the shoulder along with a pretend scowl.

With a wink he started for the far rack. Now if I remember correctly right over here is a...

Sentence dying just as fast as his motion both came to an abrupt stop right in front of the center rack.

Sharon raised an upheld hand toward the rack. Dad, I feel a draft.

Me too, he replied with a curious stare at it.

Raising his flashlight-lantern overhead and aiming it around he now noticed that all three racks though dirty, were bone dry and mold free.

Sharon followed the draft to its source via her outstretched hand. It’s coming from here, she then put her light toward the spot, just another part of the rack to hold its four or so bottles. No different from all the others except it was all the way to the right side of the center rack at about four feet from the floor.

Bending down a bit she peered in. The board on the back is warped and... she stood up straight and took a side step nearer her father. Dad...that’s a hole to something behind it.

Exchanging hands on his light he brought the right gently to her shoulder reassuringly, and then he bent down to look in. Still bent over he cocked his head toward her. You’re right.

It was creepy enough down in this dark smelly basement but now she was truly scared. Dad, can we call it a day? she whined softly.

Unfortunately his attention was back to the rack’s curious feature. Something’s made a rust mark at the top, right where the backing warped away.

With bravery born of true curiosity he stood quickly and thrust his free hand back there, feeling around blindly.

Weird...it feels like an old rusty latch of some kind, he stated as he began to force it over in what seemed the correct direction.

As soon as the latching bolt left its mooring point the entire center rack lurched back an inch on its right hand side immediately followed by a loud TWANG and bang.

Sharon became part of her dad’s side, arms wrapped tightly around him. She almost dropped the light.

Attention now fully returned to his daughter he hugged her back. It’s okay...it’s okay. I think we discovered a secret room not even your Grandfather knew was down here, he then looked at the rack. "Very clever. If you didn’t know about the latch you’d never find it, or the room beyond.

But the noise? she barely got the question out at audible levels.

Hmm...sounded like a spring. It started to open but... he then looked at her calmly with a bit of a smile. There’s only one way to know what’s back there.

How ‘bout we break for lunch? she jibed weakly as she started to lessen her death grip around him.

Aw...come on, where’s your sense of adventure? he kidded back.

At Taco Bell, she returned flatly.

Eric laughed at the reply and patted her lightly on the back. On the last pat he held her tight then just as quick gave the rack a shove with the hand that still held his light.

His sudden action along with the slight grinding sound the rack/door made moving over the collected dirt on the floor had her death grip return. The large room beyond was totally dark but the intrusion of light illuminated a shape in the middle of it.

It’s a coffin! Sharon almost screamed as she buried her face in his chest.

It’s not a coffin, he responded trying not to laugh. It’s some kind of old trunk, see?

Refusing to look she just shook her head side to side while still buried in his shirt, eyes tightly shut.

Hey...would I lie to you? he said as calmly and softly as he could.

No. A much muffled reply came after a long pause.

Then trust me, he said stroking her hair.

Slowly her face became visible, looking up at him.

It’s only a trunk. Like what people used to travel with before suit cases were made. I promise.

Not releasing him from her arm lock she did slowly look into the room, face turning against his shirt.

See, nothing but an old trunk, he repeated. Trying to take a step in that direction proved impossible. He let out an exaggerated breath of exasperation. You know...blood does need to flow to my lower body?"

A small grunt of acknowledgement preceded her letting up a bit on the bear hug hold.

That’s better...I can feel my toes again, Eric joked to ease her fear. Just short of having to peel her off him at last they were separate. He paused a good while to let her calm down.

Slowly he leaned down a bit to look her in the eyes. Ya know...I’ll bet there’s something pretty valuable in there for someone to go to all this trouble to hide it. What do ya say we check it out?

Sharon looked back still with fearful eyes.

Please...for me, he said with a pout. Besides, I’m too scared to go in there by myself.

Finally a sign of normalcy returned, She made a YEAH RIGHT type frown.

Tell you what.., he tried again. after we check it out we break for lunch.

That was the correct bargaining chip. Sharon looked up at him, large brown eyes determined. Okay...but I pick the place.

Her father stood up triumphantly. Deal.

Both then did their customary three point handshake, the standard shake once, followed by four fingers curled shake, then a tap of each other’s fist together...once.

And now? he wagged his head in the direction of the newly discovered room.

She grimaced a second then looked that way too. After you.

There proved no need to squeeze through or duck, the unorthodox door was more than large enough to allow passage.

Eric’s first instinct was to put his daughter more at ease so he turned to check the backside of the storage door.

Just as I thought. The weird noise and bang we heard, an old rusted spring that broke when I undid the latch.

Sharon looked as well and was much relieved.

The hinges were rusted, but up at the top one, someone had installed a large spring to assist in opening the door. It had broken in two with the larger piece still attached to the door, having struck the backside.

As Eric held his light higher he slowly turned to check out the discovery. It was no small room at all, a good fifteen feet across by over twenty feet long. It was almost the same size of the basement they just left.

His turn stopped abruptly as his expression of wonder became stark realization. In the nearest corner were five large wooden barrels stacked two on top of the other three, each had the faded white lettering on them that simply read GUNPOWDER.

Sharon’s eyes went wide. You gotta be kidding?

Forcing himself to look onward, Eric’s attention traveled down the left side wall, he again had to stop. A gun rack held at least seven strange looking rifles pointed upward vertically. Five of them were wrapped in something like oilskin cloth; they still had a slight shine to the material despite the years and more recent water exposure. The two unwrapped ones fared far worse. Both looked quite decrepit and full of rust, their stocks split and cracked.

Just what every basement needs, an armory, Eric finally managed to say.

As their eyes took in the scene it was Sharon who noticed something else first.

Dad? she said sniffing slightly. It doesn’t smell bad in here.

His attention broke from the gun rack as he also inhaled. Yeah...you’re right. The draft we felt makes sense now. There must be a ventilation pipe in here, he gazed upward. Must go up through the house...right to the roof.

So you could be down here with the secret door shut and still get some fresh air, Sharon surmised.

He looked at his daughter proudly for her deduction. Exactly, he then glanced about. And that also accounts for the lack of mold on this stuff, the air helped evaporate the water and dry things out faster.

Hey Dad... Sharon called out. You always wanted a good workbench, check this one out.

Going over to her he saw what she meant. An old hardwood workbench was against the wall opposite the secret door. A variety of tools were in a toolbox by its side though none were useable. On the bench top were small tools beside a rifle that was being worked on long ago.

Eric suddenly lit up as he stepped forward, pushing the bench’s chair aside. Oh my God! he exclaimed as he put his light down on the bench and carefully picked up the rifle.

Sharon watched him brush off the weapon like he had the bottle of wine earlier. What’s so special about the gun?

He was studying it with his fingers as well as his eyes. Since this one was lying flat it was in better shape than the two in the rack. It had dried out more evenly than the vertical ones.

It’s a Flintlock...also known as a Musket rifle. These were the first type of rifles ever made, he finally looked away from it to see his daughter’s lost expression.

What’s all that on the side? she asked while pointing at the corroded metal parts.

Well ya see... he responded as he brought it over toward her. Back then they didn’t make bullets like today. You know, with the gun powder in ‘em?

Yeah...I follow.

Eric smiled as he continued his explanation. Everything was separate. Powder was poured down the barrel here then...ah then. Oh what was it called? he wasn’t really asking her.

Sharon just listened on.

Oh yeah...wadding! A piece of paper was stuffed down it with this, the long thin metal rod that rested below the long forward stock and barrel wouldn’t come out of its place...corrosion locked it there. After a minute of trying he gave it up realizing its condition.

So what did it shoot if there isn’t any bullet?

His response was to quickly scan the semi-cluttered workbench shelves; there on one was an open metal tin full of black round objects. Next to the tin was an odd metal device with a hinge in its middle. Carefully setting the musket down he grasped both tin and tool and brought them over for her inspection.

Reaching into the mass of black objects she plucked one out and examined it between her fingers. No bigger round than about half inch she stopped rolling it around to bring it up toward him.

It’s kinda heavy, she noted.

Lead balls called shot. One of them was dropped in after the wadding, he stated matter-of-factly.

Hmm, Sharon made a sound of impression as she dropped it back in among the others.

And this is how you made the shot. It’s too badly rusted but it used to close up here at the hinge. You poured melted lead in here and when it cooled you opened it up and voila...

Ya got a little lead ball, she said in mock boredom.

Putting down the tin and tool with a bit of a thump he snatched the musket back into his hands. Oooo...if this thing only worked... her dad came back in equal mock anger.

You’d probably shoot yourself in the foot, she jibed as she ducked from his comical attempt to get her with the butt of the weapon.

As he completed his wide swing, never really trying to actually hit her with the musket, the muzzle end hit something over his head. Bringing the weapon down fast he reflexively looked up to see what he’d hit. Directly overhead was an oil lamp on a hook. Eric recognized its style immediately, just like the lamp over the carriage front entrance, though that one was now an electric light.

Sharon quickly scanned the room’s ceiling. Hey, there’s another one in the middle of the room directly over... she again grimaced slightly. That... trunk.

One over the workbench and that one to light the whole room, Eric observed as he put the musket back on its resting place.

Still a bit afraid of the large trunk she kept a distance from it. The last wall to be explored caught her attention. I think this was a flag? she asked pointing to the rather decrepit piece of cloth tacked to the basement wall. The years and recent flooding reduced it to a faded torn rag.

Eric went over to her and studied it as well. Looks like some kind of emblem or crest was in the center. Not a state or a country flag...I don’t know what it was.

Look at all the little funny trees, Sharon pointed to the most legible one, no more than two inches high.

Squinting and holding his light forward he made out the figure that had once been made with a gold paint or dye. That’s the French Fleur-de-lis.  About to say more, he kicked something down at the floor as he went to get closer to the flag.

Five long wooden boxes sat against the wall one atop the other. The wood had turned almost black which explains why they missed them until now.

Brushing off the top box some words and an emblem started to appear, but barely. Brushing a little more vigorously only made some of the emblem come off to which he stopped in mid-sweep.

Beaum...Beaumo.., Eric tried to read the name in bolder print just below the emblem. Oh well, he said giving up on it.

He more carefully cleaned off the two words below it, head coming up in surprise.

It’s in French...Fine Armourers, he read aloud.

I didn’t know you knew French? Sharon said, her turn to be surprised. What’s it mean?

These are more muskets, still in their shipping crates, he answered with a bit of excitement. If any of them are in good shape do you know what they’re worth?

She just shrugged beside him. A lot?

He turned to look at her. Yeah. A collector of old weapons might pay quite a price for a genuine French musket. I’d have to do some research to know what to ask but I’m sure they’d sell. We could start to rebuild with... Trailing off in his sentence he was eyeing the long large trunk.

It was about five feet long, three feet wide, by just over three feet tall. A pedestal had been made for it to sit up off the floor some six inches. The gently curved top did give it a rather coffin-like appearance, at least from one of the sides. From the front the three wide leather straps that wrapped around it could be seen, one near each end and a middle one. The metal buckles were covered by corrosion as was the lock that was built into the middle of its lid.

We’ve gone all around this little baby but if she holds anything more valuable than the muskets we struck pay dirt, he said as he went straight for the new object of obsession.

Sharon couldn’t help but back away toward the workbench. It gives me the creeps.

Only giving her a quick frown he returned his attention to the trunk.

The leather hasn’t rotted? Must be treated with something. You know...this might be what they called a steamer trunk, he said studying it more closely.

Steamer trunk? That sounds weird, she put in from far away.

A trunk specially made for ocean crossings. They were very tough...and water tight, Eric said the last part with excitement.

It took some work but one end buckle then the other gave way despite the corrosion. The center followed leaving only the lock to keep it sealed.

Down on one knee Eric surveyed the keyhole. Looks clear and a little shiny in there must be lubricated pretty well. I’d hate to take the crowbar to it; besides...this lock looks like it’ll put up one heck of a fight.

Sharon kept vigil by the workbench.

If we could only find the key, Eric stated coming up straight but still on a knee. Wait a minute...whoever put this here would probably have the key hidden nearby. But where...?

Getting back into the spirit of the moment Sharon seemed to snap out of her fog and even took a step forward. I don’t know about you but I know where I’d have hidden it.

Her dad looked at